


Three for a Crossroads

by songsmith



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Friends of Narnia, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Setting: England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsmith/pseuds/songsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jill Pole spends a summer with Polly Plummer, the last thing she expects is a very Narnian mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three for a Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PencilDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PencilDragon/gifts).



The house was small but tidy, fresh paint on the trim and well-scrubbed brick distracting the eye from the scars of bomb damage at one corner. Jill checked the number against the slip of paper in her hand for the third time, then drew a deep breath and rang the bell.

The door opened before she had time to do more than smooth her skirt nervously, revealing an older woman whose face creased in a youthful smile when she recognized Jill. “ _Bienvenue, mon élève_ ,” Polly Plummer said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Jill had not expected a test immediately on arrival, but she had practiced on the train and managed to respond without stumbling. “ _Je vous remercie de m'héberger, madame._ ”

“ _Bien._ ” Miss Plummer stepped back a bit, waving her inside. “We’ll work on the accent a bit, but on the whole I think you’ll benefit most from a little more confidence. That’s the trick to playing any role, you know.”

Jill shed coat and hat in the entry hall, still feeling shy. “I’ve never been much for theatre.”

“Did you have any trouble convincing your parents?” Miss Plummer whisked the suitcase from her before she could object, leading the way upstairs.

A bit thrown but the change in subject, Jill stammered, “No, I mean, not really.” The visit had been presented to them as tutoring for Jill’s upcoming exams, with an emphasis on French. Miss Plummer’s international work had made her fluent. “Mother was pleased I’d be acquiring some polish, I think.”

“There’s one successful piece of theatre for you, then.” She pushed open a door, setting the suitcase down just inside. “We’ll put you in here. I’m across the hall, and the bath’s just there.”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” Jill said automatically, but her mind was still working over the last part of the conversation. “I hadn’t thought of it as theatre... It was true, after all.”

“The best lies generally are,” Miss Plummer said. “Why don’t you freshen up a bit and I’ll fix us some tea - or something cold? That walk from the station can be tiring.”

It hadn’t seemed far when Jill had consulted a map, but turned out to be mostly uphill. “Cold would be wonderful, Miss Plummer, thank you.”

“Not at all. And please, it’s Polly. Or Aunt Polly, if you prefer. The other is far too formal for a Friend of Narnia.” She gave Jill another of those twinkling-eyed smiles. “Come down when you’re ready and we’ll talk about the rest of your visit.”

Water splashed on her face and hair tidied, Jill felt much recovered from the walk, but the glass of squash Polly handed her when she found the kitchen was still welcome. They sat at the scuffed table and Jill felt her company nerves melting away. 

“Now then,” said Polly. “You didn’t want to tell your parents the whole reason for coming here?”

“Well, no,” Jill admitted. “Spending the summer with a near-stranger is one thing; if they cared about ‘proper appearances’ I shouldn’t be at Experiment House, after all. But they’re not like Scrubb’s parents, either. The Labour victory is more than enough change for them!” She laughed a little self-consciously.

“But not for you?”

“I… I don’t know. I want to do something -- here we are with a war just done, we haven’t even finished settling all the treaties and such, or come of rationing, and already they’re sending our boys to Malaysia, and there’s the Berlin business… where does it all end? Scrubb’s going to be called for his National Service, and… Can you imagine him fighting a war? Really? I asked if he’d take the objector exemption, but he says after Narnia, he’s not, and it wouldn’t be right. But it’s not the same _kind_ of war here, is it?”

Polly’s gaze turned sober and sad, and for a moment Jill thought she might even cry. “No,” she said quietly, “it’s not the same kind of war at all.”

Jill glanced down, tilting her glass a little to make the rainbow sparks it cast on the table dance while Aunt Polly collected herself. “Anyway,” she said when she thought it might be safe, “I want to do something. We have to, don’t we, or why else did Aslan choose us?”

“Why, indeed?” said Polly, sounding her brisk self again. “We’ll start tomorrow, then. There’s a meeting -- I’m afraid you’ll have to practice a bit of ‘seen and not heard’ there. It’s only that they’re wary of newcomers. But there’s a rally on Friday, and that’ll be a bit more active.”

“I don’t mind,” Jill assured her. “I do understand about working one’s way up.”

Polly smiled at her. “I know you do. And we’ll have all summer for it. I’ve a number of friends you’ll want to meet if you’re serious about international work.”

*

Two days later Jill stood with a rosette pinned to her dress and a placard gripped in her hands. Beside her Polly was deep in discussion with someone Jill vaguely recognized from the meeting. That had been less interesting than she’d hoped; not being able to participate gave it the atmosphere of a schoolroom and she’d spent the evening feeling as if she’d forgotten to revise. Hopefully it would get easier -- she still wasn’t certain she fit in.

This, as Polly had promised, was somewhat more interesting. They were protesting outside a hotel that was hosting some sort of diplomatic meeting -- Jill wasn’t entirely clear what the subject was meant to be, but the guest list tended heavily to military officers and certainly involved chest-beating in the direction of the Soviets, which was enough to garner attention from more pacifist quarters. After all the guests had arrived, there would be a few speeches, largely (Polly had explained) in hopes of grabbing the attention of reporters covering the event. In the meantime it felt bold to march about the street waving a sign. Maybe the cause wasn’t as grand as the suffrage marches Aunt Polly talked about, but still.

A gentleman in some sort of uniform -- nothing she recognized, even after a war -- passed by with a dark-haired woman on his arm. Such couples had been arriving for half an hour now, and Jill had mostly stopped watching them. This time, however, her eyes happened to meet those of the woman, and Jill froze in her tracks. “Susan?” They were too far away to hear, of course, but even so the dark-haired woman showed no hint of recognition. But Jill was certain… She nudged Polly. “Aunt Polly, isn’t that Susan?”

Polly followed her gaze, frowning as the couple vanished into the hotel. “Yes, it is. What’s she doing here, I wonder?”

That seemed obvious enough; Susan Pevensie certainly didn’t lack for beaus. Delicately Jill suggested, “Perhaps she didn’t know where he’d be taking her?”

“Hm,” said Polly, and nudged her into motion again.

*

The speeches were not inspiring. Jill was starting to think peacefulness extended into every part of one’s life, sapping all the energy from one’s words. Except that Aunt Polly was passionate, and several of her friends seemed to be as well. In fact, the cluster of them talking quietly at the edge of the crowd was far more interesting than the man meandering through a speech about the bonds of nations. Jill started working her way out of the crowd. It didn’t seem worth listening any longer; he’d begun to repeat himself and anyway, the reporters hadn’t written a word in ages. They were lounging across the street smoking now, clearly waiting for the reception to let out.

Raised voices spilled out from the hotel, then the sound of shattering glass. Jill whipped around in time to see a dark figure jump out a window. It twisted toward the street, and she gasped -- the head was a snarling dog’s, fierce and cruel. For a moment she felt trapped beneath the yellow glare, then the crowd broke it’s shocked stillness. Screams and curses drowned out anyone sensible, and everyone tried to run in different directions, succeeding only in tangling themselves.

Jill rolled her eyes, elbowing her way through the crowd. The dog-creature spun and took off down an alleyway, hotly pursued by a handful of people who’d followed it out the window. Polly was likewise headed that way, and Jill caught up to her as soon as she’d squirmed free of the bystanders. “Do you recognize it?” she asked breathlessly, only partly because of the running.

“Do you?” Polly returned. She was faster than Jill would have expected; they’d almost caught the other pursuers. Then the pack stumbled collectively, confused when the alley spilled into a proper intersection.

“Where’d it go?” “There--!” “No, this way!” They scattered, spreading out among the streets, still calling to one another. Polly and Jill glanced at one another, both thinking of portals and magic.

More footsteps sounded behind them. Jill glanced back to see another group of party-goers approaching. These seemed far less agitated, and were led by a man who radiated authority. “Let’s leave off, chaps,” he called to the searchers. “The police are already starting a search; they’ll handle it from here.” He motioned to the people behind him; they split up and began chivvying the searchers away.

“I doubt they’ll find anything,” Polly said quietly to Jill.

Not quietly enough -- a nearby uniformed fellow practically bounded over to them. “Why’s that?” he asked. His gaze raked them quickly, taking in the practical clothing. “You weren’t at the party; did you see something outside?”

“Michael, come away,” a woman’s voice broke in. She slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow, and Jill blinked to find Susan Pevensie smiling blandly at her. “Stop bothering the ladies and let’s go back to the hotel before the police have to order us back.”

“But Susie,” Michael protested -- Jill waited for Susan to object to the hated nickname, but she didn’t bat an eye -- “if they know something about that thing--”

“That thing was just some troublemaker looking for attention,” Susan said. “Let the police arrest him; that’s what they’re for.”

Jill stared. “Didn’t you see it?” she blurted out. “It was… it was like something from Narnia, Susan!”

Michael’s attention return to them, much sharper this time. “You know each other?” he asked. “And what’s Narnia?”

“My cousin’s schoolfriend,” Susan replied, tossing her head. “And Narnia’s just a game they used to play with my younger siblings when we were children -- elves and fairies and what-not. Fancy you still remembering,” she added to Jill.

Jill could hardly speak for outrage, but Susan wasn’t going to let her get a word in anyway. “Such imagination, isn’t it sweet, Michael?”

“Sweet,” he echoed, glancing back at Jill, and this time she could see him register her youth, dismiss her with a glance.

“Let’s go back,” Susan prompted, tugging a bit at his elbow. “You promised me a dance, remember?”

He blinked and suddenly straightened up, all gallantry. “Of course, darling. We can’t let a bit of mischief spoil the evening, can we?” He patted her hand once and led her off toward the hotel.

*

“No,” Susan said, carefully adding just the right note of regret to her voice, “I’m afraid I can’t have you up -- my roommate will be asleep already.”

“At least let me see you to your door,” Michael persisted, leaning into her.

Susan smothered a giggle behind her hand, glancing around as if to check for eavesdroppers. “I couldn’t! If our landlady should catch wind of a gentleman upstairs, we’d be turned out on our ears. She’s terribly particular, you know.”

“I suppose we can’t have that,” he replied. “But you know you’d never be homeless with me…” He bent down, capturing her lips, and she let the kiss linger for a slow count of five before drawing back.

“That’s so sweet,” she murmured. “I think my mother would have something to say about it, though. Perhaps we’d best say goodnight here.” A glance up, lashes fluttered just briefly.

“Goodnight,” he replied, leaning in for another kiss.

She let him steal two more before a not-entirely false yawn reminded him of the hour and his manners. He strolled back to the official car waiting at the kerb, and she trudged up the three flights of stairs to let herself into her flat, double-checking the door locked behind her.

Jean was asleep as expected; Susan left the lights off while she changed into pajamas, then crawled into the free side of the bed without bothering to remove her makeup or brush her teeth.

Susan had barely touched the pillow when Jean stirred and rolled over, snuggling up to her from behind. “He keep his hands to himself?” Jean asked, voice sleep-slurred.

“I didn’t need to shoot him,” Susan answered, smiling into the dark room. She tucked her hands over Jean’s, settling them both more comfortably. “Go back to sleep -- early briefing.”

“Mm.” Jean was already dropping off. Susan shut her eyes and followed her into sleep.

Morning arrived not with the ring of an alarm but with a hand shaking her shoulder gently. “Up, sleepyhead. Briefing in an hour.” A soft click and rattle heralded a teacup being set on the nightstand. “There’s toast, when you’re awake enough to chew.”

Yawning, Susan sat up and forced gummy eyes open. Jean looked at her, shook her head and put the teacup in Susan’s hand, carefully fitting her fingers around it. “Lord, you’re a wreck. Was he that bad?”

“Who?” It took two tries to maneuver cup to lips correctly, but the warm liquid started her brain awake. “Oh, the Captain. No, he was the usual amount of bad.” Memory started to filter back in, and with it a certain urgency. She gulped at the tea. “We had a White Rabbit last night.”

The toast rack Jean was setting on the table thudded harder than it should. “In the middle of the reception?” Susan nodded. “Any of the public see?”

“There was a protest outside, so yes. And reporters,” she added, anticipating the next question. One last draught drained the tea, and she swung her legs out of bed. “Three guesses what the morning briefing will be about.”

Jean winced. “That’s going to go over well. I’ll get our bags, you just worry about getting yourself ready.”

“Thanks.” Susan surveyed the wreck of her hair and face in the mirror, then sighed and reached for her cold cream. They’d have to hurry to make the office on time.

*

It never boded well when Mr. Mason opened a meeting by thumping a stack of newspapers down on the table. The papers sat there like the proverbial elephant while everyone at the table scrupulously avoided eye contact with one another and especially with Mason.

He let them stew for a good while before resting his fists on the table and leaning forward. “Sixteen of you at that party, and do you know how hard it is to finagle the guest lists so no one suspects that? Sixteen embedded security people, and you can’t stop a bunch of drunk diplomats from yapping to the press?”

“Sir,” Fletcher protested, “we couldn’t have predicted… that. And when it went out the window -- we could have managed statesmen, but with so many, er…”

“Chest-thumping hot-blooded showoffs?” White offered. Susan admired her control; nothing in her face or tone suggested anything more tart than an observation on the weather. Mason glared at her anyway, but it lacked the usual force.

“Er,” Fletcher repeated. “Yes, well. It was inevitable they’d pursue, and then we had a mess on the streets.”

Mason considered, then gave a short, brisk nod and pulled out his chair. Everyone relaxed minutely. “I’ll concede it was an unpredictable development,” he said, settling himself in the chair. “So. For the conference tomorrow, I’ll be calling in some experts from the Institute.”

A chorus of groans from around the table. “Sir,” Susan said, “Torchwood wouldn’t know diplomacy if they tripped over the Foreign Office. We should have to babysit them as well as our guests.”

“I’m not unappreciative of your point, Pevensie. But the fact remains they’re better equipped to handle… odd things.”

“A prankster in a very poor costume is hardly outside our wheelhouse. If it should turn out to be more we can turn the evidence over after we’ve secured the conference.”

“You think it’s just a prankster, Pevensie?”

Well, no, but she wasn’t about to say as much. Fortunately Harrison jumped in, “Sir, the whole street was crawling with protesters. Not to say they could get past our security, but some respectable student taking a dare from his mates? With the fuss outside it would have been sure to make the papers, and imagine the bragging rights.”

“Hm.” Mason’s skeptical expression was etched permanently into his face, so it was difficult to tell how ridiculous he found the suggestion. “Very well, we’ll keep this matter internal for the time being. Extra security details, and if this does turn out to be youthful high spirits, let’s make certain they have cause to consider matters more soberly. Dismissed.”

Amidst the shuffle of papers and chairs that followed, White leaned over to Susan. “You’ve got the touch with managing hotheads, Pevensie; shall we put our heads together on closing some gaps?”

Susan smothered a chuckle down to a calm smile. “I’d be glad to,” she answered, “but perhaps a bit later? I rather think I need to go do some managing right now.”

“Good luck with it, then. Eleven?”

"That should be fine.”

*

In the morning, after breakfast, Jill and Polly set out for the site of last night’s adventures. Polly had a thick volume, a friend's monograph on folkloric creatures from around the globe. It was stuffed with slips of paper, the result of last night’s careful combing through it, marking anything that resembled a dog or wolf. Together they walked what felt like half of London, up and down every street looking for any sign of the beast from last night. It was Jill who finally spotted a odd gash in the roadway, like the marks of claws, and they followed that up the road until the sounds of something rummaging in a dustbin led them to the creature.

It was as tall as a man, but stooped over the tipped bin, nosing through the rubbage like any stray dog. The head, in the light, was more dog than wolf, and the baleful yellow gaze Jill remembered so vividly came from a single eye set in the center of the forehead.

"Hello," Aunt Polly said carefully. "Hello there. We're friends... that's a good fellow..." She advanced step by cautious step, hand outstretched as if to a skittish animal. 

The creature reared back onto its hind legs, stared wildly between them for a moment, then turned and bounded off down the alleyway.

"Oh, wait!" Jill cried before she could think better of it, and ran after it. But it was too fast, and she lost it when it climbed a tall stack of of rubble that looked like bomb debris and ran off down the other side. Dejected, she returned to Polly.

"We'll find it again, no fear," Polly said, giving her a brisk and one-armed hug. "Now, which of these do you think it was...?" She started flicking through the marked pages, consulting the descriptions with care, even as they wandered back toward home.

"Here, this one looks nearest!" Polly exclaimed triumphantly. "'The psoglav is a demonic figure with a cyclopean canine head.' Horse legs, though, that's not very like. 'It is reputed to consume the dead and even its own kind.'"

"Ugh," said Jill involuntarily.

"I doubt it's true," Polly assured her. "All kinds of terrible things are attributed to what people don't understand. Hmm. 'They dwell in dark lands away from the sun with huge gemstones supposed to grow naturally.'"

Jill gasped. “That-- we heard about that! In Narnia, well, in Underland. Rillian wanted to go there, you see.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Polly said wryly. “Suppose you take a deep breath and tell me again?”

Abashed, Jill followed that advice, and this time got her words in order before she spoke. “After we rescued Prince Rillian from the Green Lady, the whole Underland started shaking to bits. And a huge chasm opened, and all of the Lady’s servants said it was the way to their home. One of them told us more about it - he called it Bism, and it was just like that, with the growing gems and all.”

“Hmm,” Polly mused. “Perhaps a pathway through the heart of the world? They do say there are strange things deeper than men can go.”

“Perhaps,” said a new voice, “you shouldn’t stand on public corners discussing things that would have the neighbors reporting you for lunatics.”

Jill turned, and there was Susan Pevensie, leaning against a building's stair rail as if she’d always been there. “You came looking for it too!” Jill exclaimed. “Why are you being so snobbish about it?”

“I came looking for you,” Susan replied, “as you are family friends, and I rather thought you wouldn’t have the sense to leave this to the authorities. I'm sorry to see Aunt Polly encouraging you at his nonsense."

“I see nothing wrong with it," Polly said stoutly, frowning at Susan.

“A woman of your experience and reputation can certainly indulge her own... eccentricities," Susan answered, "but think about the consequences for Pole. Rumors of oddness would haunt her in any career, just as she's about to embark on it."

"There's nothing wrong with being a trailblazer," Polly replied. She waved the book at Susan. "Plenty of good research has been done by not being afraid of stepping off the path."

“It's not an age of lone amateurs learning as they go anymore. Nowadays one needs to work with the system."

"That's the safe course," Polly chided. "Which is well and good for most people, I don't argue that. But a brave young lady can carve her own path in any era." 

Susan narrowed her eyes at this, as if suspecting some hidden meaning. She hook her head, but instead of replying to Polly, turned to Jill. "Please be sensible, Pole. It's a long enough slog in front of you without tying weights to your ankles."

"But it's a portal to _Narnia_ , Susan!" Jill protested. "Don't you understand? We have to find it!”

“ _You_ have to do precisely nothing, Pole,” Susan said, “except perhaps to leave off playing at things that don’t concern you.” She turned on her heel then, tossing over her shoulder, “You will both excuse me; I’ve an appointment.”

Jill would have snapped back at her, but Polly laid a hand on her arm. When Susan was out of earshot, Polly sighed, shaking her head. “I’m afraid there’s no point trying to reason with her, my dear. Sometimes people simply have to go on being foolish until they decide to open their own eyes.”

“But we are going to do something, aren’t we?” Jill asked. “We can’t just leave it.”

“No, of course not. Come, tell me more about this Bism, perhaps that will tell us how to start.”

*

Susan found her way back to that street corner not long before sunset. This time it was deserted, with no sign that Pole and Aunt Polly or any other curiosity seekers had been poking about, which was a relief. They didn’t have the staff to patrol the area, not if they wanted to keep matters discreet. Which was half of the reason she was out here alone, with no partner and no backup.

The other half, of course, was the information Aunt Polly had gathered -- and then discussed in excited tones on a public street in the heart of London, as if she hadn’t been keeping a secret for fifty-odd years. Really, she treated it like a game, and Susan was sorry to see Pole absorbing the attitude as well. One expected the general public to be more hindrance than help, but there was a special sort of frustration in finding an expected ally to be an obstacle instead.

With a deep breath, Susan pushed those thoughts away. Tracking in city streets was nearly impossible in the best of circumstances; agitation would only hurt matters. Her gaze roamed the corner thoughtfully. Actual tracks would be non-existent, of course, but perhaps a scuff from claws? Some fur left behind? He had moved like a werewulf, and if he had the canine head and the body mechanics, he was probably like enough to have some of the same instincts. And werewulfs didn’t run when they felt threatened, they attacked, unless they were protecting pack… or already injured. Had someone got a lucky shot off last night or this morning?

Susan’s steps turned toward the churchyard. Wounded werewulfs went to ground, generally, and there was little in the city that would look like a den to one. But a mausoleum, if Polly’s information was correct, would be exactly what he’d be drawn to, and from there… underground, perhaps?

The churchyard was alarming in the half-light, and Susan wished she dared ignite her torch. But it would likely frighten him, so Susan persisted without. Far at the back, a crumbling structure more than admitted passage for a man-sized figure. Carefully Susan edged up to it. From inside she could hear distressed whining. "Dry bones, dry bones, dry bones," over and over above the sound of scrabbling and scratching.

"This place hasn't been used in a long time," Susan said softly. She could see the broad figure turn to face her, teeth bared in a snarl. "Peace, cousin," she said. "I swear I shall not harm those who do no harm." She took a shuffling half-step closer, pleased when he didn't flinch. "You're a long way from home."

"Home," he whimpered. "Home, home. So cold, so cold so bright and all dry bones, dry..." His claws scraped through the dust and rubble on the floor.

"You're hungry," Susan realized.

He fixed her with that single eye. "Food?"

"Not here." Did it have to be human flesh, she wondered. Would a pigeon or squirrel suffice? "If you come with me, I'll get you some food," she promised.

He stumbled toward her, not even a so much a limp as a controlled fall, and stopped there, clinging to what had once been a handsome sarcophagus.

"Don't be afraid," Susan said, and clicked on her torch. In the yellow beam, the blood soaking his fur was obvious and far too copious. Susan clambered over the rubble to reach him. "How long...? No, don't move, let me look..." But even a quick look was disheartening. It had been a belly wound; bad enough on its own, but it looked like in his pain the poor confused creature had tried to claw out the bullet. Susan tentatively rested her hand atop one of his paws. "I think you'll be going home soon, don't you?"

"Home," he said mournfully.

She stroked his paw. "I'll stay with you. However did you wind up so far away?"

"Called. Cold." He huddled down further, fluffing out his fur. 

Heedless of the blood, Susan pressed herself closer, for whatever warmth it might provide. "Just rest," she urged. "Rest now."

*

Susan dragged herself home close to midnight, a long anxious walk since she didn't dare board a bus in her bloody and bedraggled state. When she stumbled into the flat, Jean gasped. "What on earth happened?" she exclaimed. "No, wait, get out of those things first and into a bath. You look as if you need it -- and, oof, you smell like it, too!" she added when Susan came closer.

Susan didn't have the energy to glare. She just nodded tiredly and began pulling off clothes on her way to the bath, not really caring where they landed. Behind her she could hear Jean rattling around, the hiss and pop of the stove turning on, the clang of the aluminum wash-tub being pulled out. She ran herself a bath, as hot as the pipes were willing to produce, and practically crawled into it.

The water was grey, her skin pink, and her hair halfway to clean again by the time Jean entered bearing a mug of Horlicks. "I put your things to soak," she said, handing Susan the mug. "The skirt may yet be salvagable, but I think the blouse is a lost cause."

"Perhaps I can expense it." Susan sighed. It was hard enough managing clothing on rationing without destroying things in dirty jobs. She studied the grey water and scowled, pulling the plug with more force than required, then reached for the taps to run fresh water.

"Why, Miss Pevensie," Jean exclaimed teasingly at this, "what about the coal ration?"

"Bugger the coal ration," Susan snapped. She still felt filthy despite the scrubbing, and colder than the mild summer evening should ever have made her.

Jean's teasing morphed into sober sympathy. "Here, budge up," she said, unbuttoning her pyjamas. "We'll call it my bath, and you can share it." Pyjamas abandoned, Jean slid into the tub behind Susan, wrapping her in a loose embrace and resting her chin on Susan's shoulder. "Better?" 

Susan let herself relax a little. "Better." 

"Good. Drink your Horlicks." They were quiet while the water ran.

Susan reached out to twist the tap off, and words spilled out of her instead. "Someone shot him," she said. "And he didn't understand, I think, he tried to find what was wrong and he just ripped... I couldn't do anything but hold him."

Jean's arms tightened around her. "So he wasn't alone."

"Maybe. He hardly knew where he was, who I was." She turned her head to rest against Jean's. "And tomorrow we have to go out there and find who called him here, and I had a fight with Aunt Polly... she still thinks it's all a children's game, I wish she'd grow up..."

"Shh," Jean murmured. "That's tomorrow. Just rest now. Just rest."

*

It had been a frustrating afternoon, with no further sign of the psoglav. Tucked back in Polly's cozy home that evening, in the middle of a French lesson, Jill burst out, "Was Susan right?" Polly blinked at her, and she elaborated, "About... should we have been more careful talking in public?"

Thankfully Polly gave this due consideration rather than simply brushing her off. "No, I don't think so. People are more open to wonder than that. It's just fear holds them back -- fear of what a few stodgy sorts might say. And they we go about thinking all our neighbors are that sort, never knowing they're looking for magic too."

"Then it's all right to talk about Narnia?"

Polly thought for a moment. "I certainly shouldn't advise saying you'd been to a magical land to just anyone," she said at length. "But there's no harm believing in things that can't be seen, or not quite part of the normal world."

"She seemed... really worried for us, though."

"I'm afraid Susan has fallen into the trap of considering others' opinions more highly than her own," Polly explained with a sigh. "It's not at all uncommon in youngsters, but I should have thought Narnia a bulwark against it. In due course she'll be old enough for imagination again, I shouldn't wonder. In the meantime we must be patient with her." Polly smiled at her. "You must promise me you shall never think yourself 'too old' for such things!"

"No, of course not!" Jill exclaimed. "How could one ever be too old for Narnia?"

\- Fin - 


End file.
